


Looking for you in the Sky

by timidGoddess



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Mistaken Character Death, Runaway AU, Sleeping Pills, Slow Build, Strider Familial Unit, Strider Feels, Strider-centric, Temporary Kidnapping, alternate universe - freeform, and yeah i'll probably keep adding to these tags as we go along, dave feels, dave goes on a cross country roadtrip, dave is a resourceful little shit, dave is a wild and free soul who don't like being chained down, his brothers worry A Lot, in which dave runs away because he's a drama queen and everybody cries???, with lalondes mixed in
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-02-23 04:58:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2535005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timidGoddess/pseuds/timidGoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which dave is a free and wild soul and sets out on a cross-country journey of self discovery on a stolen motorcycle with a fake ID, inadvertently fucking up his brothers A Lot</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princemax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princemax/gifts).



> yes hi, hello, i haven't used this account in nearly a year, oops. and i've got an unfinished story,, , anyway, i've had this in my head for a really long while and since the tags seem to be filled to the brim with various depressing and eye burningly OOC nonsense. i kind of planned this au out with a friend and thought hey, i should write this maybe and here we are. 
> 
> hopefully this one won't be as big of an undertaking as my godstuck au? i'm mostly shooting for about 5-6 chapters with this. 8 being the maximum 
> 
> (EDIT: also! quick warning, the title'll probably be changing here and there until i decide on a solid one, mostly because i was never really sure what to call this haha, this has been sitting in my folder under the graceful, affectionate name of: 'Untitled Strider Garbage" for about a month and a half after all, pfft
> 
> fun fact: our current title happens to be the same as a vocaloid song i was always really fond of?? (even if the song's subject matter and the fic are so far from each other its almost hilarious) i'd feel bad if i failed or forgot to give it an honorable promo/mention :>)

In retrospect, the fight _had_ been your fault—at least a little bit. 

The rain comes down in a steady downpour above the shelter of the bus station; a frustrated huff lingers on your lips as you absently drum your fingers against the clammy metal armrest of the bench you’d chosen to lounge on.

A heavy, duffle is resting at your feet; the bright orange of it’s material is harsh and vibrant as all get out, and the sheer color itself and the immediate recollection it invokes is more than enough to plant a spell of feint nausea in the pit of your stomach. You focus instead on your mercifully gray hoodie strings, setting your jaw tensely as an unpleasant feeling of irritation wells in the back of your throat.

You tap your fingers harsher against the metal.

Dirk’s duffle bag is like a thorn in your side, it’s bothersome, prying, and _nosey_ just like him, and fuckfuck ** _fuck_** you for being pissed off enough to accidently snatch the wrong one from the top most shelf of your shared closet.

Then again—maybe you’d been seeing too much red at the time to notice or care.

You kick a stray, littered, can into the street with your sneaker; glancing down at the sidewalk again with a frown. ‘Home’ wasn’t something you were feeling to be totally honest here—hell, you probably wouldn’t be feeling ‘home’, for a while, yet. Maybe you’d shack up at Rose’s for a few weeks until you cooled down a bit (until _both_ of you cooled down and Dirk wasn’t threatening to tell your secret to everyone and their fucking grandmas).

The bus schedule feels like a heavy piece of lead in your back pocket, it weighs you down, makes you feel a dozen times heavier—like you might fall straight through the damn bench, splinter right through that wood.

You bite your lip.

Unfolding the schedule, you, not for the first time, wonder how far you could go before D figured things out and cut off your credit card to make you come home. The fake ID could get you pretty far you think, but even seventeen was pushing it for most people with the sophomore-ish baby face you’d been sporting all year; forget about twenty-one.

You take your wallet out of your back pocket, clipping and unclipping the magnet almost monotonously with a slight frown and a thoughtful furrow of your eyebrows. Bro might kill you— _D would kill you_. So, you try not to think about catching the next six buses to the nearest state border, you draw in a deep breath, crumpling the schedule messily as you hastily shove the thing in your back pocket as if it might sting you or some shit. The frustration burns in the back of your throat anew and seems to spread to your chest. Your jaw tenses and you’re suddenly so, so, so fucking tired and irritable and _holy hell you **hate** this_. _You hate all of this; you are officially calling bullshit on the universe for putting you through even a minuscule fraction of this shit._  

Your name is DAVE STRIDER you are SIXTEEN YEARS-OLD and you want to FLY.

 

 ---

For the longest time, since you’d turned thirteen, you’ve felt restless—impatient, even, though you hadn’t known for what exactly. You’d thought of asking Rose, of course you did, but the thought of your cousin getting her slimy, slippery metaphorical tentacles around your brain was the furthest thing you ever wanted to be 100% honest with yourself, here.

So, you’d kept the feeling inside. Bottled it up, locked away the key and tossed it into the middle of the Indian Ocean—it stirred once in a while, of course (what secret didn’t?) but you dealt.

At least until you realized everywhere else you _could_ be.

It happened early in the morning, you had been on one of your caffeine fueled studying binges, you hadn’t slept in at least 72 hours minimum and in hindsight you probably should’ve made more time for power-naps. You know, instead of flipping on the TV and plopping face down on the opened futon like a giant, study-resilient, unproductive couch potato—just food for thought.

Your hand had groped around for the remote, a short break, you’d promised yourself, a short break should get you going again; at least until noon rolled around, anyway. 

A special on “Most Beautiful Places in America” had been showing on some no-name History network you hadn’t cared to remember the name of that time of morning—you’d been fully prepared to pass out before the program ended, again, to be totally honest with yourself. 

You’d stared blankly at the screen for the longest time, as you remarkably managed not to clonk out during the commercials, in your exhausted haze, however, when the documentary finally got going? You remember feeling a tiny little ‘spark’.

It’s hard to explain; even to you, it’s always been hard to explain. It ignites something, something small granted, but it’s warm and _there_ and it makes all the tiredness, all the wariness lift from your shoulders and you’re suddenly light as a feather. Everything seems to just go ‘poof’, it all floats away and you find yourself focused on the images flashing before your eyes.

You’re still so, so tired, but you suddenly want to _see_. You want to see everyone and everything, you want to go everywhere and witness so many things. The Sequoia Redwoods are so overwhelmingly large and they look so massive you wonder what it’d be like to just stand and front of one and put your hand to the bark and compare how much wider its trunk is. The Rocky Mountains, the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, the Great Lakes, you just want to see so much. The need is so there, and so strong, sudden, that you’re not even sure what to do about it, how you’re even going to handle it, not yet at least; you about ready to overflow—you’re wide-awake and antsy now, for the first time in a long while, you don’t feel _tired_.

Your hand starts itching to sketch more often after that.

You borrow Dirk’s colored pencils, climbing the stairs to the roof starting that very morning, and outline the sunrise with vibrant reds, oranges, and sharp, defined violets. Bro gives you hell for all the times you end up sleeping up there some mornings, Dirk is just pissed his pencils keep disappearing. _~~D isn’t there but that’s okay, you’re plenty used to it already.~~_

Practicing stubbornly and persistently, to your surprise you start to get _good_ just as good as Dirk, just as good as Bro’s sketches and robotic diagrams, you get good and the itching grows, you grow tired of that same Houston sunrise and you still want to see so much more, so much more it turns into an ever constant ache that never, really leaves.

(Come December 3rd, your fourteenth birthday, you get a professional set of pencils—ones of your own, from D. Mailed apologetically from Hollywood for the third year in a row, but they’re shiny and new and _yours,_ so, you’re grinning far too much to care for once.)

 

\---

Junior year you get an offer for a hefty scholarship from some prestigious art university up North on the west coast after you place first in several state contests and place second in a national. Your guidance counselor calls you out of pre-Calc and tells you that your motivation is lacking, your grades aren’t as high as they were last semester, work harder, try harder, blah, blah, blah, blah.

“Ma’am, can I go back and sit through pre-calculus now? If I don’t I’ll end up bein’ behind again, wouldn’t want that now would we?” You had faintly muttered in a dull, droning tone, tracing your finger over and over the coarse surface of Ms. P’s desk. You watch the small, tiny dwarf of a woman puff out her rosy cheeks in clear frustration and you almost feel _bad_. Ms. Paint had that effect on people.

“Mr. Strider--!”

“Sorry, I should probably split, I’ll do better in Physics, alright—? Don’t even sweat it Miss P.” You’d wanted to take Anatomy. You still did, but the school had insisted on your classes in particular being centered on math for some (likely rigged) assholish reason.

Mrs. Paint sighs and runs a hand through her whitening hair, “Dave, you’ve had all A’s since first semester of freshman year, you were up there with your brothers.” Your mouth presses into a thin line at that and you visibly dunk your head to hide the troubled furrow of your brow, “You have several D’s and an F, the only classes you’re getting A’s in are art and creative writing.” 

She frowns hard at you and you slump into your chair, taking a sudden interest in the wall, you mentally say the next words that come out of her mouth along with her in near perfect sync—you’ve heard them repeated more than enough to know them by heart, after all.

 

_Please Dave, you have so much more potential, you can do better than this._

  
  
“Please Dave, you have so much more potential, you can do better than this.”

 

That day, you ask Bro to pick you up early from fourth period and he does, he doesn’t say a word on the way home but you somehow get a sinking feeling in the pit of your gut that he’s disappointed in you too. Everyone seems to be disappointed in you these days. 

\---

 

The bus pulls up and you sullenly stand to your feet, making a grab for your (Dirk’s) duffle bag, your only thoughts are of how to deal with Rose’s usual prying questions when you pop up on her door step at three in the morning (again) and of how cowardly you feel, not having the courage to move forward. Striders weren't cowards, Striders were strong, they took risks; they _made things_ of themselves. They were a lot of things but they sure as hell weren't cowards ~~(maybe you were never really a Strider to begin with).~~  

These thoughts, ironically enough, are the last tangible things you recall feeling before your entire world changes—for better or for worse? You don’t think you’ll ever know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which dave is kidnapped and decides to use that brain of his for things other than mixing music and spinning sweet raps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realized it was dave and dirk's birthdays today and decided it'd be a sin not to hurry up and finish up this chapter before it ended in my timezone haha i got stuck on the first 1500 words for like a month v-sorry for the wait (if u were waiting anyway pfft)

_== > Dave: Continue feeling sorry for yourself. _

You are already far ahead of that step and in the stages of wallowing in self-pity, please and thanks.

You take the bus of metaphorical and literal shame to Rose’s house on the other edge of the city, by the time you check your phone, it’s about 11 at night; you’ve gotten approximately one text from Bro telling you to be back by noon tomorrow or ‘You’re fucking dead kiddo’ (D’s words, not his, but you get the message).

 You catch yourself punching in a less than ‘civilly worded’ message in response as you make your way off the bus when it comes to a halt at the stop a few blocks from Rose’s neighborhood. You think better of it a good ten, ranting lines in, drawing in several, controlled breaths through your nose, and calmly erasing the offending text. Replacing it with a short, clipped, more-reserved version of the solid 50-80 words of pure frustration you’d just tacked into your keyboard at the speed of light. A more comical part of your mind snickers over the sheer irony of the fact that the message almost sounds just like D when he’s pissed off and playing ‘cold shoulder housewife’ (or whatever Bro calls it.)

 

_[sure whatever man just let me cool off a bit]_

You                                                                 Friday 11:08 pm

_[I mean it, kid, text me or literally anyone else when you get to Aunt L’s place got it?]_

Pompous Asshole                                            Friday 11:10 pm

 

Rolling your eyes as you’re weighing the pros and cons of typing in a snippy, smartass reply—you find yourself far too distracted to even hear the heavy, dragging footsteps coming from the alleyway next the little roof you happen to be standing under. The autumn serves as a cover of sorts for the hefty footfalls, by the time you’ve decided ‘fuck it’ about the snippy text message, you hardly notice the ominous pair of gloved hands rising behind you, chalking up the cautionary chill you feel travel down your spine to the less-than-merciful autumn weather—Jesus, it was a bad autumn this year, wasn’t this still Houston? It’s not supposed to get to be less than 40 degrees in Texas period, last time you checked.

 Your thoughts are cut off rather abruptly as a thick, suffocating cloth covers your nose and mouth.

 Everything just happens _so fast_ you hardly have time to register what the hells happening, let alone react productively—put up a fight even. A fabric-covered hand (leather gloves, maybe?) tightens on your wrist, forcing you to drop your phone, and eases you backwards towards the particularly menacing alleyway located behind you and well—you panic.

 Being ax-murdered by some random, likely-serial killer manic was not exactly number one on “Dave Strider’s List of Preferred Ways to Go” to be 100% honest here.

 So you fight a little harder, increasing the volume level of what sounds you can let out along the pesky weird-smelling cloth covering your mouth, you kick out your legs and dig your heels into the ground and spit out more muffled profanities than you can count—for all its worth, you wish the guy wasn’t wearing gloves—that way all of that defensive clawing wouldn’t have ended up proving to be quite so useless (hell, were your nails even long enough to have an effect in the first place? You highly doubted it.).

 After a moment or two, the lightheadedness starts to set in—from what your hazy, panicked mind assumes must be the chloroform on the cloth. Your muffled protests and struggles start to slowly dwindle down to nothing; even the steady, ever present, background noise of the rain is disoriented by the blood you can hear rushing in your eardrums and, and… everything just kind of

Stops.

 Your muscles untense and unwind and your distress starts to ease and melt up and up into a white, fluffy cloud—what had you so stressed out and bothered again?

 You couldn’t quite place what it was anymore.

 The lingering scent of chloroform almost smells sweet; it reminds you of the comforting familiarity of Mom L’s tequilas, or the expensive wines D liked to drink, back when he was home a bit more often.

 Your eyes begin to roll backwards, up towards the sky, and your knees buckle.

 Things start to go black after that, even the fuzzy streetlights start to dim and disappear. You think you feel yourself being manhandled without much care—sort of like being treated like a sack of old potatoes or something, as you’re thrown less than ceremoniously over this (pretty damn massive, your foggy mind dully notes) guy’s shoulder. You’re not really sure what happens after that. But you just feel so damn tired, in a totally different way all together.

 You just want to sleep.

 So, by the time you’re set down on a flat surface (a car’s backseat, maybe?) you’re already way too far-gone to even think of anything else.

 

                                                          

 

At first there’s a white noise of sorts.

It rings out continuously in your ears; it overwhelms and consumes _everything_ for what feels like hours—then, came the voices:

“Chrissfuckin' sake Boxcars, outta all the kids you coulda plucked off the street in a rich neighborhood—!!”

 “Sorry boss, I did’in think ‘e was—”

 “Do you have _any_ idea who’s fucking kid this is you overgrown,” the voice pauses, you distantly hear at least several deep breaths being taken and several more (crudely vocal) large gulps of a drink of some sort.

 You smell cheap beer.

 “This is a Strider boy.” Another, significantly stoic—almost bored—voice states bluntly, finishing the sentence for the shouty-angry voice “This kids big brothers tore up this city’s underground once upon a time during their high school years, you know?”

 “You see?? Droog agrees with me.”

 “It’s less agreeing and more resigning to the fact that we’re royally fucked over when one of them realizes we’ve inadvertently messed with one of their off-limit-zones at least a decade after their 'graceful retirement'. Those two were fucking monsters in their golden days, we’re dead.” the voice states dryly with a semi-tired-mildly-irritated sigh, you almost feel bad for the poor guy (and debatable kidnapper, you guess).

 “Can’t we just like… put it back boss?”

 “He’s not a _dog_ , Boxcars.” The bored voice’s clipped, aggravated interruption is nigh immediate, almost as if retorting in an attempt to combat the angry-sounding voice before it got any ideas to leave you to freeze in a muddy ditch or something.

 “Are you sure he’s even gonna wake up, the chloroform couldn’t have affected him that badly, right?” a more chipper voice chimes in.

 “Well, if worst comes to worse we can always throw him in a ditch and fuck off to Mexico and hope his brothers don’t find us and skin us alive.”

 See? Leave you in a ditch to freeze. Awesome.

 You choose that moment crack open one eye, then another as a finger persistently pokes and prods at your cheek, it was whatever, dying in a ditch or some dumpster after being mistaken for a corpse wasn’t too high on your priority list either to tell you the truth.

 The headache hits and catches up to you quicker than a bullet train and you’re sure you groan louder and more pitifully than a dying walrus right then. It’d be embarrassing if your head wasn’t literally about to split open.

 “’Oou da fuhck’er yo..u…” you kind of slur unintelligibly, voice a bit muffled by the (actually really tasteful and clean) couch cushion. A short, roundish guy pokes and prods at your cheek—obviously having nothing better to do. You close your eyes and decide briefly; maybe reaching your inner nirvana would get you out of this fuck-up of a situation—your head hurt like a motherfucker.

 You watch some guy with a scarred up face crinkle his nose at you in near disgust, “… Are you sure we can’t put it back, I mean, it’s only been about twenty-four hours. I’m sure no one’ll ever realize the shits been gone.”  
  
“Even if that _did_ work, what happens if the kid fucking _squeals_ ,” you have enough mind to quirk a mildly offended eyebrow—that was kind of insulting, who the hell did this posh-dressing asshole in a suit think he was talking about you like a petty rich whiner (hell, you _were these things_ but that certainly didn’t mean you were a snitch, thanks, wow, rude.)

You were also not a kid.

You were seventeen as of  _next month_  thank you very much.

  ~~(Wow that sounded kinda pitiful, you could just hear inner-Bro laughing his ass off at you right about now the smug bastard.)~~

“Also, I’m not an ‘it’, bro, I can literally hear you so well and have been able to for the past ten minutes or so—way to be a dick.”  
  
“Why you—”

 You watch the ‘boss’ guy, reach in the inside of his jacket for something, expression admittedly rather bored and not too worried.

He kind of reminded you of a more aggressive, impulsively violent KK, actually— that _or_ you still hadn’t come to terms with the whole “kidnapping thing”. Whichever. All that mattered was that you were calm as a cucumber right about now.

Calm, exasperated guy—Droog, you think he’d been called a few times—grabs the boss’s arm and _jerks_ , glaring down with narrowed eyes for a solid ten seconds. You watch the other guy eventually growl and loosen his grip on whatever he’d been on the verge of pointing at you.

Ah, yes, the benefits of familial connections.

“Can’t you just let me go?” you say, after a moment of silence, lifting your head from the pillow, brain still pounding like it was a fuckin’ mariachi band in your skull, god what you wouldn’t give for a painkiller—chloroform was a bitch apparently. “I won’t ‘squeal’ or whatever, even if I did, its not like you guys did any permanent damage or nothing, so I could probably convince my brothers not to track you down to the ends of the earth and grind your bones into artificial sawdust, yeah?” Your voice is a little strained with an over all “I’m dying kill me” vibe as you sit up, noting for the first time—impressed—at how tight and firm the zip tie is on your wrists, no wonder you’d been feeling like you were in an uncomfortable position for so long.

“Sorry kid,” you crinkle your nose at Droog, as he leans against the wall, sliding a cigarette from a case he’s holding, “no can do, you’re too big of a risk factor to trust, no offense.”

You internally feel like cursing Bro and D for instilling so much fear into this city, goddamn.

“We’re not going to, ya’know, kill you, or anything, but until we figure out what to do with you, or say, find a why to deal with this without a… mishap. Specifically ending with our heads on a platter, you’re gonna stay right here.”

“The longer you keep me here, the harder they’re gonna search, dude. This is kinda counter-productive and needlessly dangerous, don’t ya think? Isn’t it better to ‘quit while you’re ahead’ or however the saying goes?” Droog shrugs, lighting his cigarette.

“Whether we keep you for one day or one- _hundred_ isn’t going to matter if your brothers figure find out that we in particular have or have ever had you. The result will literally be the same either way. Remember Red Friday of ’01? Well, of course not, I guess. You were about five then.” He tilts his head, “…Lets just say those ‘brothers’ of yours are incredibly protective of their things.”  
  
A chill goes down your spine and you have a feeling you really shouldn’t ask what the hell ‘Red Friday’ means. Sounded like a horror movie.

 _But_ , because you are in fact a dumbass, you end up asking anyway. “What the hell is Red Friday?”

Droog takes a long drag of his cigarette sauntering over towards you, it almost intimidates you with how nonchalant and matter-of-fact he is about the whole thing. Then, he crouches down to your level (he’s lean and tall, built just like D) and blows a long puff of smoke in your face—immediately you are sent into a coughing fit; it almost makes your head feel even worse. Your eyes sting and you feel yourself retreating backwards into the too-soft cushions of the couch.

“ _Fuck._ ”

He ignores you, letting out a dull, though somewhat thoughtful, sort of hum. “I dunno, surprisingly enough. But I sure as hell can tell it had to do with those ‘off-limit’ zones they set down.” The mobster’s gaze meets yours sharply and you almost feel uncomfortable for the first time in twenty minutes.

That uncanny piercing gaze was far too in line with Rose’s to be even remotely comfortable.

“You and your other brother are a part of that ‘off limits zone’.” He finishes short and eerily blank, standing up a bit abruptly. ~~You _do not_ breath a sigh of relief.~~ “I’d just prefer not to be 'painted red', you know?” He says, turning his back on you with a bored yawn, “We’ll deal with you in the morning. I’m going to bed.”

Your jaw drops.

Everyone starts to clear out as soon as the words leave his mouth—fuck, wasn’t that Slick guy supposed to be “boss” this was bullshit. “You’re just gonna leave me here, to sleep on your tacky, lumpy--.”

“No its not, its actually a pretty comfortable couch. And stylish.” He says, with a dismissive wave on his way out, pausing at the doorway as his other four companions file out in an almost seamless single file line the boss grumbles and the other two seem surprisingly conditioned. “You’re a tough kid, I hear... Strider, or whatever, you know? You can live without a blanket, right?”

Your eyebrow raises, “Are all mobsters assholes or are you just a cold hearted bastard in general.” The corners of your lips twitch upwards warily.  
  
He shrugs, as soon as everyone is out of the room.

“Dunno, maybe I just don’t like spoiled brats.” His lips rise into a ghost of a smile—if you didn’t know any better (if you didn't know _Bro_ ), you’d say it was the smuggest gesture you’d ever seen in your life.

The light clicks off and you groan once you hear the telltale sound of the door shutting and a lock clicking in place.

Now what were you supposed to do.

A small part of your mind that almost sounds like Ms. P says something like: _“be smart, be resourceful, you have so much more potential Dave”_

You wonder just how resourceful you can be—now that you’ve been given the chance.

 

 

 A week. You count an entire week in this underground shit hole, there’s a barred window to your left, you can see Northwest side of downtown Houston, you’ve watched the sun’s light travel across the room in differing intervals through out said entire week. It was starting to get you a little irritated and restless, speaking from a ‘wild’, ‘free’ soul’s heart and all.

There was a TV in the room that served as semi-favorable background noise, thank god.

But, fuck were you bored of daytime television and the media wide panic over you going missing for seven days, maybe it was all starting to melt your mind finally. Sometimes, you spend your alone time spinning sweet raps under your breath, waiting to be rescued like the goddamn Disney princess you are, thanks (you were famous movie director, extraordinaire D Strider’s little-fucking-brother, you were as good as one, maybe even better). And sometimes… well. You think of your brothers.

You imagine D ripping out his hair and pacing a goddamn worried trench around the apartment as he calls every resource he can possibly get in touch with to calm his motherhen-esque tits and let out an occasional laugh; Bro’s a bit on the sketchy side. You’d never really seen Bro upset, but judging by the stories the more friendly, talkative portion of your kidnappers told—you probably really didn’t want to.

Even then, sometimes, when you don't feel up to lying to yourself anymore--

You think of Dirk.

Your anger had long since simmered down into a barely conceivable speck, being kidnapped probably does that to a person (though thinking about what you’d opted to dub The Incident, did still tend to put you in a bit of a sour mood). A small part of you is worried he’s told Bro about… what exactly your argument was about, especially since you weren’t around this time to cut him off before he went blabbing off.

(Specifically, about your plans after high school, though you doubt that mattered now that it’d been _over a week_ now and your brothers were probably thoroughly agitated out of their skulls. Even if Dirk _did_ talk you doubt the statement would be taken as even little more than a grain of rice in contrast to the current situation.)

Shit, you didn’t think you’d miss that jackass—at least not this hardcore. You hope he’s alright, hell, since it was _Dirk_ you knew for a fact that he was probably beating himself up over all of this. More than you ever could. He was prone to paranoia-nightmares, he’d freak the hell out, he was probably more than ready to apologize, you’d both fought before you disappeared, and god, the last thing you'd  _said (fuck why did you say that, if it hadn't wrecked him then it sure as hell would now)_ _andand_ — **fuck.**

.... You kinda miss everyone. You start to wonder if Rose was getting along okay, was she writing installments for that magazine every week before the deadline like she was supposed to? Fuck, if she skipped this week’s because of your disappearing act, you think you might just feel _awful_.

What about Jade? How was she holding up on that deserted island of hers with her weird grandpa and adventuring older bro, haha. Maybe she missed your killer sense of humor.

John? Shit, man. Couldn’t leave your best bro hanging, he needed someone to rant at about his overbearing old man. You were both gonna play the new Call of Duty game on Xbox live when it came out late December.

You huff out a puff of air, the TV buzzing in the background—some lame axe commercial, you think—as you fell back on your side. The wall looks remarkably interesting right about then.

“Godammitttttt….” You groan very suddenly in frustration, wrists straining uncomfortably against your zip-tie restraints as you roll over on your stomach. You’d rather go to fucking class than deal with this room for another week… hell, probably three at the rate you were going.

_== >_

  
It isn’t a week.

It’s three days when the little-round guy (Deuce, you think his name was) forgets to re-restrain your wrists after you finish eating the (arguably subpar) food set before you that morning. So, you decide to put your resourcefulness to use, since obviously it’s been made relevant no one was coming to get you anytime soon.

The news was going crazy sending out reports about ‘D Strider’s missing younger brother’ from the casts you’d seen on CNN—that _wa_ s all you’d been watching for the past near week and a half or so (being incapable of changing the channel alone and all). You start to reckon it was time you went back home anyway.

The thought of school makes a lesser part of you shrink away, and you crinkle your nose in distaste at both yourself and probably the American School System for making you favor being **_kidnapped_** over having to get up at six every morning to deal with Chemistry and fucking Pre-Calc for the first three hours in a row.

God, this was all so fucked up.

You wait patiently for the telltale familiar sound of the front door of the hideout (likely apartment) to shut twice—you’d long memorized their schedules. Droog and Slick left together when the TV clock struck nine am, Deuce and Boxcars left when it struck noon. No one should be back until 5 o’ clock pm at the earliest.

They never locked the door to the room you were in. Never. This was the TV room. You had to go through this room at least once to get to the door that led to the kitchen.

You wait a few more moments, just to make sure everyone was really out for the day, then you take your free hands from behind your back and set the zip tie down safely on the table—you’d have to re-tie it yourself later.

You use your newly allotted time to wonder around their apartment for the hell of it. You find two (bed???) rooms full of guns and explosives, a room full of enough knives and blades to make Bro and Dirk fuckin’ cream themselves, weirdly enough—one filled with cleanly, pressed suits, and finally, eventually, a bathroom.

You glance over at the drug cabinet, mind working about a mile a minute as you feel your eyebrows furrow and your teeth digging into your bottom lip enough to sting. Then. You start to wonder.

You leaf through the cabinet now, you are on a mission. A ghost of a smirk grows on your face after you empty out the cabinet.

You find what you are looking for: “AMBIEN {ZOLPIDEM TARTRATE}”, is what the bottle reads. Your smile only grows. It was the strong shit too. This meant you probably didn’t need more than five.

This could definitely be a thing that works in your favor.

_== >_

You spend about an hour in the kitchen immediately afterwards—it’s surprisingly clean and organized, probably Droog, the guy was a bastard, but classy, you’d give him that at the very least.

You grab the kitchen hammer and use it to grind the sleeping pills into dust, you make sure it’s utter dust, like a fine powder—then, you take the bucket of coffee grounds and pour the entire pile into the container. God, you hope all of them drink coffee tonight like they usually do at seven. It’d be a bummer if Droog tightened ‘security’ if you failed in this attempt. So, you screw on the lid shake up the bucket, you make extra sure the powder is mixed in properly and seamlessly with the coffee beans.

Once you are 100% satisfied, you clean up your mess and put everything back exactly where you found it; you go back to your couch retying your wrists—you’d known how to get out of zip-ties since like second grade it was hardly a thing for you to break them later on, Droog just didn't seem to take this fact into consideration.

That’s when you settle down to watch the news—it was time to play the waiting game.

_== >_

Just as you predicted.

Come seven o’clock, you watch all four of the mobsters walk past you and into the kitchen; your expression is blank and neutral. You give nothing away—quietly thanking mini-Dave for being so impressionable and taking after his big brothers so readily.

You watch the clock after that for a very long time; you hear the usual chatter and commotion from the kitchen. Your blank expression wavers and breaks and soon it’s a faint smirk. This was around 7:25 pm.  
  
At seven-fifty o’ clock sharp you hear a single light thud on what you assumes is the wooden table, that’s when you start counting, One, you think to yourself distantly. Two—the sound of a broken glass. Three, another thud—an infuriated growl and a curse. Four, the last one.  
  
This is Boxcars. You know it is.

Because the sound he makes when he hits the tile is enough to make the floor vibrate for a split second.

At 8:12 pm your smirk has become a face-spitting grin; a sense of pride fills your chest for the first time in you-don’t-even-fucking-know-when. You know you have won.

~~(Winning for once on your own power and not through your brothers feels surprisingly _good_ , is what you soon decide.)~~


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you can (not) abscond (haha jk jk, of course you can.)

_== >Dave: Find your shit and get the fuck out of dodge before these mobsters wake up._

   
Yeah, yeah, you were on the verge of doing exactly that. Chill.

You crouch down, having stood from your curled up position on the couch, step one foot behind the zip tie, then the other to successfully get your wrists in front of you. Then, standing to your feet, you suck in a breath, clench you jaw whilst pulling apart your wrists as much as you possibly can, and ram your knee hard against the space you’d created.

A satisfying snap sounds and next thing you realize, you’re standing up, shaking out your hands with a low whistle under your breath. You glance towards the kitchen door once again; it’s still very silent, satisfyingly so.

 You go off to gather your things, a part of your mind hoping your highly incompetent kidnappers, (excluding Droog, you’ll begrudgingly admit), didn’t throw anything of yours out.

  _ ~~You immediately hate yourself and your brain when Dirk’s duffle bag is the first immediate thing that comes to mind.~~_

 

_== >_

 

After an admittedly frantic forty minutes of navigating the hideout, you’re almost relived to find your shit piled at the top of some storage closet—the rifles in the tightly enclosed space prove surprisingly tricky to maneuver around, but it isn’t anything you can’t handle, living with one of two guardians who liked to store shitty ornate swords in the refrigerator on a day-to-day basis tended to be helpful in that respect.

“Almost… _Almost_ … just a little more—” you mutter under your breath, arms reaching upwards as you feel for the bright eye-burning orange duffle bag seated on the top shelf of the closet (fuck, you hated being l. You feel a victory grin come to your lips, which is instantly soured as the bag tips; or more specifically, tips forward towards your head before you can catch it.

You predictably end up on your ass with a face full of duffle and a groan on your lips.

Begrudgingly searching the bags contents to be sure everything was in its rightful order, you frown once you begin to realize you cellphone happened to be missing. Your clothes, your laptop, wallet, ID and license—everything was there aside from your cellphone.

 

==>

 

Against your better judgment, you press an ear against the door, listening for the telltale even breathing of the four men likely on the other side—after a tense moment, you cautiously creek it open with baited breath. 1… 2… you take a moment to count four collapsed figures at least several times over and let out a sigh of what you refuse to admit is of relief.

You needed to quote-unquote “get the fuck out of dodge”, car keys were liable to help with that.

So, you begin to go through their pockets, one by one. Droog has a wallet full of twenties—a wallet full of twenties that you full well consider taking, mind you—but you decide it isn’t worth the new enemy you’ll likely make and carefully slide it back in place. Slick has a disturbing amount of knives sewn into his jacket that you’d prefer not to think about, Deuce has a pack of obviously home-cooked explosives, which you’d also very much prefer not to dwell on. 

You hit the metaphorical and literal golden jackpot, however, upon reaching Boxcars, your eyebrows slowly but surely raise as you pull out a pair of silver edged keys—you have to look at the engraftment at least several times, dropping the second pair of keys (to a mustang, you think) you’d found in the big guy’s pocket soundlessly on his chest.

“Holy fuck,” you all but breathe, once your mind finally kick-starts itself back into gear.

These were the keys to a goddamn Honda Gold Wing F6B. Jesus fuck, were you hyperventilating, fuckfuckfuck, you think you were truthfully about to pass out right now.

Your mind races about a mile a minute. _23K_. These shits went _for twenty-three grand_ holy _fuck_ —your hand tightens almost painfully around the keys right then and you stiffen up as you hear one of the bodies on the floor let out an incoherent groan.

And… yeah, you take that as your cue to make like a tree and ollie the fuck outtie—or whatever the saying was. In a snap second decision, you shove the keys to the _Gold Wing_ (holy ** _fuck_** ) into your back pocket taking your leave from the kitchen. Your grip is tight on the duffle bag strap you have over a shoulder as you make a beeline for the door; it’s not until you feel fresh air on your cheeks for the first time in two weeks that you relax a fraction, closing the door behind you, a light sigh that almost feels like relief on your lips.

 Out of the corner of your eye you spot a pitch-black motorcycle parked to the side of the metal staircase you’d somehow exited out at the top of; you swallow dryly, descending the stairs in slow, deliberate footsteps, mumbling something almost religious under your breath as you near the bike, fingers trailing its handles. You toss a leg over the (padded! heated!!!) seat, relishing in how comfortable the seat cushion feels under your pale as fuck, jean-covered rump, before hesitating and withdrawing the action, circling the bike a bit more. It’s smaller than Bro’s Harley—more lightweight. You run the very tips of your fingers over the skillfully polished, pure black of the metal; despite your less than favorable situation feeling far too unclean and overall unworthy to even put the key in the god forsaken ignition. The entire thing seems like its goddamn shining, shining with the righteous beams of the holy light of the motorcycle gods, ready to race the other name brands to motherfucking Valhalla with its sheer brilliance and presence.

 Fucking bikes, man.

_== > Dave: Ride._

 

No way, this shit takes some good ol’ fashion TLC lovin’, it’s a process, can’t rush this shit.

 

_== > **Dave** : Just rev up the damn bike already before your kidnappers wake up, you dingus._

 

Okay, okay, geeze, hold your goddamn horses, bro—you were going already.

With one last wistful sigh, you swing a leg over the seat of the motorbike again and adjust yourself on the seat, hands curling and tightening on the clearly customized, cushioned handles bars. You’d never ridden something this extensive before—never something like a tourer—you just _really_ didn’t want to fuck up and maim and cream yourself on some street-side pavement, you know, if that was cool and fairly valid fear to have.

You turn the key in the ignition, sucking in a deep breath as the engine whirrs to life; you most certainly do not feel a pleased shudder shoot up your spine at the smooth sound of that kitty purring like a steam engine—haha, how ridiculous would _that_ be?

… Okay, you could do this—Bro’s plush, Harley-riding ass didn’t have shit on you. You Could Do This, out dated 'hapen' references and all.

You rev up the engine and adjust yourself on the bike, hoping to the high heavens above that Dirk’s duffle bag doesn’t end up throwing you off too hardcore packed to the back of the bike—the pitch black helmet, previously hanging on the handlebars, that you slide on is far, far too big for you, though comfortable and more than safe enough, you suppose. But hell if you weren’t more nervous than Mitt Romney in a Catholic Church.

Your thoughts swing something along the lines of ‘fuck it’, right then, and suddenly—just that easily—you’re off.

 

==>

 

The sky is cloudy and grey—better than the usual suffocating-wet heat this time a year, you suppose, but cloudy nonetheless. Even as the streets grow ever the more familiar, and the buildings change from the shady, broken down alleyways that made up the Northwest side of what happened to be downtown Houston—you feel a persistent weight settle on your shoulders that just won’t ease.

It reminds you how low you’d felt all year; that itching, almost torturous urge to get the hell out of dodge, to travel, to get away from school—no, it was bigger than that still. To get away from that apartment, to get away from routine, your brothers, hell, life in general.

You stop abruptly at an intersection in the road at a red light; feeling like you might very well be in a hallucinogenic daze as the traffic signs (‘yield’ and ‘no right turn’) begin to look something like a distinct and obvious fork in the road. There were two signs before you, two vague choices that your direct conscious couldn’t quite put a name to.

  ~~(God, your entire life was just one big fat pretentious cliché, wasn’t it?)~~

Turn right? You knew for a fact that you could leave town easily just by following that main street, straight out to city limits, if you went further still, in a day or so’s time, you’d be able to make it to the state line. Fuck it. You had your wallet, you had the cash—D’s cash ‘allowance’ he’d sent for the month would certainly last you at least three extra if you played your cards right (thank god you hadn’t put it in the bank yet), and you had clothes; a toothbrush, your fake-ID, a ride of your own.

Maybe Dirk had been right. Maybe you _were_ just a stupid kid, a spoiled ostentatious brat—maybe you were a bit senseless in general for even seriously considering this to begin with.

The imaginary sign glowers back down at you, looming, mocking; you stare back at the sign. 

With a sharp intake of breath, and a snap, reckless decision, take a sharp right turn. 

Ms. P’s ever constant, familiar soft voice continues and returns like a sort of mantra, echoing in the back of your mind: ‘ _You have so much more potential, you can do better than this.’_

You could do better than this. So, so much better—you didn’t want to be some insignificant part of some intricate system that cared fuck all about you or your thoughts or ideas—something that wanted to stamp out every shred of you that was an individual. You didn’t want to be some washed up, dried up college student without a set career in mind—you didn’t want to stay in Texas all your life, to stay in the shadow of your brothers’ legacy. 

You didn’t wantyoudidn’twantyoudidn’t _want_  

The thoughts were beginning to sound like a particularly depressing broken record, to be frank. 

So you cut the emotions _out_ , ignore them completely—it was what you did best, had always done best. 

(It’s the only reason, you think, that you’d even worked up the courage to make it so far out of the city limits.) 

You don’t stop, can’t stop, not until you reach a gas station and fill up the tank of the bike. You find your hands are trembling—though from what exactly? You aren’t quite sure yet. Anxiety? Anticipation? Fear? Maybe even a mixture of all three?

Leaning against the pump, you lose track of time, the sun begins to set. You swallow dryly. So what if you weren’t sure where you were going, what if your brothers had all of Texas and half of the south looking for your rebellious ass? 

So, what? **_So, what?_**

This was something you’d wanted and repressed for so long—so long that now that it was so firmly and easily in your grasp, you didn’t think you could just turn back and let the chance slip through your fingers, even if you tried. Why?

Because on your back, there was a pair of wings. And you were eager to try out flying with them.

The means to the ends didn’t matter, the people you cared about didn’t matter—you’d feel terrible later, hell, you’d feel like the scum of the earth, just for that single minute thought, but right now? Looking out at the sunset flickering and struggling to be set free from that cloudy sky and leaning on a stolen motorcycle in front of a shitty roadside gas station?

You find that you couldn’t give well worth a damn.

You were a selfish teenaged boy—so, what was the harm in acting on it for once in your life? In proving Dirk right?

 

==>

 

The further away you get from that old, run down gas station—and by extension, Houston, the lighter you shoulders begin to feel, surprisingly enough. You already felt less restless, less _trapped_ than before and the feeling just felt so elating and _real and wonderful and just—_

This was nice—this was _good_.

Something still felt like it was missing, however, like a significant piece of yourself, a part of you that _should_ be there—… but, just… _wasn’t_. You set your jaw and shake off the feeling, quick to choke it down back to check. A part of you, you think, knows exactly what, or _who_ , rather, the misplaced ‘piece’ to said metaphorical puzzle happened to be, you just didn’t want to admit it—not now, at the very least.

And so, revving up the engine again as you sped off down a deserted highway, you lock away the pesky emotion. You wouldn’t dredge the matter up again willingly for nearly another year and a half to come—

 

You were stubborn like that.

 


	4. Chapter 4

==>Be the worried older brother.

The eldest Strider is currently out of commission, try again later.

==> No, no, not that one! Be the youngest middle child.

Your name is DIRK STRIDER. You are officially EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD and your little brother has been missing for twenty-one days, five hours, ten minutes, and forty-five seconds. 

_(…Forty-six… forty-seven… forty eight…)_

It had been your fault. 

Had _always_ been your fault; you shouldn’t have let him leave, _storm out_ like that, should’ve tried harder, should’ve, would’ve, could’ve—for the past three weeks there hadn’t been any other thing on your mind. You’d gone through that evening in your head over and _over_ what you could’ve done to prevent this sequence of events, all the things you could’ve _done_ differently, _phrased_ differently.

Maybe, if you’d been just a _little_ bit more understanding, maybe if you hadn’t exploded and shouted like you had, lost your **_damned_** _temper, jesus fuck why had you done that? why had you made him cry? You hadn’t meant to do that you just didn’t want him to_ leave _. Leave you here all alone in this hell ridden desert wasteland of a state— **god** you were so fucked up what kind of big brother _ were _you??_

The motherboard you’re fiddling with proceeds to shock your fingers with a vengeance; you startle yourself out of the depreciating internal tangent, dropping the tweezers clutched in your left-hand. You study the minor red burn forming on the side of your index finger with a degree of internal numbness.

You heave a frustrated exhale, allowing yourself to fall backwards onto the carpeted floor of your bedroom (the pained jolt you feel in your chest is nigh immediate—yours and _Dave’s_ it was yours and Dave’s shared bedroom and now it was empty and you were all alone and it was your _own damned faultshitdammit all this over a stupid rode trip why had you reacted that way? why were you always so damned needlessly_ defensive _??)_

Curling up on your side, you glower over at Dave’s empty top bunk as if it had personally wronged you—still messy and unmade as it had always been, a bad habit the both of you shared. Your eyes begin to sting; you realize you hadn’t blinked for a full minute.

It’s then that, mercifully, the screens of your shades begin blinking with a pester message notification—Roxy? No, she’d been busy comforting Rose these past weeks (they felt more like _months_ ). 

Against your better judgment, you click the side of your shades once, tearing your gaze from Dave’s unmade bed and sprawling on your back again.

\--timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 19:20-- 

 

TT: Not going to lie to you here bromeo, looking really damn pitiful right now. 

TT: Crying over a measly electric shock? 

TT: Shit you’d think the world was coming to an end—which, retrospectively, from your point of view: it is.

 

TT: Hal, fuck off, I’m not in the mood for your shit; I’ll snap you in half.

 

TT: Haha, nice try, bro. Like, 60% for effort, though. I’m backed on Roxy’s harddrive and several other various forms of digital storage that I’m probably unlikely to disclose to you in the near and dear, hopeful future. 

TT: And besides. 

TT: You’d feel bad in a few hours if you did.

 

TT: Don’t fucking talk to me right now, your eye burning red text is seriously making me nauseous as all hell, dude. You are literally all that is wrong with the world and you should feel bad. 

TT: What part of “buzz off” isn’t computing here?

 

TT: Wow, you’re really off your game to day, my fine, broinator—that the best you can come up with? We both know why my –tasteful- choice in color is bugging you this badly. 

TT: What it is that's making your hands tremble. 

TT: Why, oh why my sensors are picking up on a falter, in every single twitch of your facial expressions, Dirk. 

TT: We both know, all too well.

 

TT: Shut the fuck up.

 

TT: Tut, tut, tut, Dirk. 

TT: You’re doing that ‘projecting’ thing again. 

TT: Really ought to break that habit.

 

“HAL!”

Your sharp, coarse voice breaks through the quiet of the room like a blade, the silence afterwards is deafening. The voice recognition software picks up on the unsteady sigh that leaves your lips.

  
TT: Uhg, I mean. Shit. I—…

TT: Shit. 

TT: I’m just. So off-equilibrium lately, I can’t—I _can’t_ —

 

TT: Naw, man, I get it. 

TT: Was it all that ‘projecting’ jazz hitting too close to home? Because, either way, my point still stands. 

TT: Like I said, it’s a bad habit. 

TT: --By the way, I think I’m due for a maintenance update.

 

TT: … Can’t you just leave me alone…? I’ll update your systems later. Just. Let me have some alone time. 

TT: Fuck, man, this is so messed up.

 

TT: Naw, I promised Roxy I wouldn’t let you fall down any deeper down into the metaphorical rabbit hole than you already have. 

TT: Keeping you distracted from your lowkey, self-patronizing thoughts, and self-destructive tendencies, kinda go hand in and with that bromine.

TT: Like, come on.

TT: Don’t do my job for me.

 

TT: I’m fine.

 

TT: I call bullshit.

 

TT: You’re such a literal shit bag—why did I program you in the first place, couldn’t thirteen year-old me have like—I dunno, based you off of someone I actually _liked_? I could’ve picked Roxy or shit, Bro, or

 

TT: Dave?

 

Your face goes white as a sheet, your muscles just seem to coil up and lock in place, you heave a shaky breath, running your fingers up through your unkempt, messy blonde hair—you hadn’t styled it in weeks.

 

TT: Your heart rate is rising at an unnatural rate—you are rapidly nearing 100 beats per minute, your blood pressure is rising.

TT: You seem to be suffering from shortness of breath.

 

Sucking in a deep shaky gasp, lips quaking and trembling; you clutch and tangle your fingers in your locks, squeezing your eyes shut tight. You hardly manage to choke out the words appropriate to reproach your shitty AI.

  
  
TT: Fuck off, Hal.

  
TT: Too soon?

TT: Damn, you can’t even stand to hear or even read his name right now, can you?

 

TT: _Hal, for the love of god_ —

 

You hate yourself. You were still talking to this goddamn abomination all because of how soul-crushingly lonely you were isolated in this damned apartment without Dave and without your brothers and _fuck do you hate yourself for it_.

 

TT: Okay, okay, chill out will you? I’ll stop. 

TT: Contrary to the popular belief, I'm not exactly Satan. 

TT: You’re going to form a literal stomach ulcer, going that way, bro.

 

TT: Maybe if you weren’t so busy antagonizing me, you’d realize the health and overall well-being of my stomach would be in a hell of a lot less danger if you’d just leave me the hell alone and stop being a fucking cancer to the internet and maybe even the world. 

TT: You know. 

TT: While you’re at it.

 

TT: You’re projecting again, Dirk.

 

TT: Fuck.

 

You’re silent for a long moment after that, shoving your shades to the top of your head momentarily as you heave out another shaky breath. You couldn’t do this, you weren’t _strong enough_ you couldn’t do this _Dave could be dying in a ditch right now and it would be all your fucking fault for driving him away like you did with Jake, like you almost did with Roxy—_

You suck in a breath.

God, you couldn’t do this.

When you work up the nerve flick down your shades, again, you are immediately treated to a predictably ominous string of burning red text:

 

TT: Damn, and here I thought you were done with that self-loathing shtick. 

TT: Come on, at this point shit’s bordering on miss placed, twisted arrogance. Bro, I am both thoroughly impressed and mildly disgusted at your ability to find new ways to fulfill your odd and fairly masochistic fetish to throw your psyche into emotional turmoil. 

TT: The secondhand embarrassment is so real, and I’m a well developed, evolved splinter of your mortifying thirteen year-old self’s personality.

 

TT: Uhg.

 

TT: That all you got? 

TT: 'Ugh'? 

TT: I am almost insulted-surely you can do better than that. 

TT: I’m supposed to be distracting you, you know? Can’t do that if you don’t at least make it interesting, dude.

 

You choose then to simply close your eyes and block out the offending, red text (much too, too, red—reminds you too much of Dave, _fuckfuckfuckyousideways—_ ).

Surprisingly enough, the notifications go silent after that, the screen refrains from flashing with notifications and thoroughly assaulting your closed eyelids. The silence stretches on—surprisingly enough, the moment of piece is enough to make your muscles unwind a tad (when had you seized up so tightly?)

 

TT: Like I said.

 

You finally answer after an indeterminable amount of time.

 

TT: I’m not in the mood.

 

Laying your head back against the carpet, you take an interest in the stark white of the ceiling above, looking past your tinted lenses as the mystery stain in the left hand corner of the room seems to draw you in.

Maybe you should name it.

It looks like a ‘Rick’.

 

TT: Hoe, you are naming that godforsaken stain on the ceiling that’s been there since five-ever in a hand basket, again, aren’t you?

TT: Oh my god.

 

TT: Did I ever mention that I hate the fact that Roxy introduced you to memes? 

TT: I fucking hate the fact that Roxy introduced you to memes. 

TT: (And you didn’t even _execute_ said per mentioned meme properly for starters.)

 

TT: Yes, this would make it the 55th occasion exactly that you have acknowledged this fact, Dirk. Good job. You deserve a gold star.

 

TT: You are insufferable.

 

However, little by little you find a ghost of an almost foreign smile that twitches its way onto your lips as you snark and banter with your autoresponder into the wee hours of the night—or would it be _morning_ in this case—?

The two of you argue about the philosophies of Denny’s and IHop as chain breakfast diners and there’s a bit of dick innuendos thrown in here and there—all was right with the world, it gives you a sense of normalcy that you hadn’t felt in what seemed like a terribly long time. What with all the police visits, the reporters, dealing with your older brothers and watching Bro trying to hold it together and Roxy constantly sending you stressed messages in the middle of the night going on about how Rose was _all over the damn place what do I do Dirk I don’t know what to do she’s so shaken up, Rosie’s usually the one that has things together Mom’s thrown herself into her work again and Roselyn is busy with dealin’ with your Bro and I don’t **know**_ and just— 

Nothing felt normal these days.

But this was nice. This felt normal. 

Like Dave was listening to music in the bunk above yours as usual and nothing had ever gone wrong, your life wasn’t falling to pieces with every passing week and resulting diminishing of hope and everything was _fine._

The police weren’t considering switching up their search efforts to ‘body’ status and everything was going to be okay.

 

==>

 

You spend a few more hours going back and forth with Hal, wanting to keep up your contradicting delusion for just a little bit longer—before you even realize it, it’s suddenly four in the morning. You are significantly less tense than you were earlier; you hadn’t thought of ~~Dave~~ anything particularly distressing in at least an hour or so—that had to be a new record.

As much as you hate to admit it, Hal had achieved his goal—to a certain extent. By your standards he had, at least.

 

TT: As insightful and insignificant this conversation about the probable convoluted conspiracy theories surrounding Denny’s and horsedick is—gotta let you go now, it is four-thirty o’clock and if I pull another all-nighter I’m pretty sure I’m gonna, like, do some permanent damage to this oversized brain or something. 

TT: Nobody wants that.

 

TT: Aw, baby, I thought we had something special.

 

TT: Goodnight, Hal.

 

Your hand hovers over the side of your shades, over the ‘off’ button.

 

TT: Wait.

TT: Dirk—I know, I know, you said you didn’t want to talk about it bro, hell if I were you I’d sooner jump into a tub full of glass and lemon juice, to be real here.

 

A sense of dread grips you—goddammit you just couldn’t catch a break, could you?

 

TT: But, because I am literally you and by extension, as well as a hypocrite, I am going to talk about it anyway.

 

TT: Hal, I swear to god.

 

TT: … 

TT: You know…? 

TT: In a way, he’s my brother too, Dirk.

 

\--timaeusTestified [TT] blocked timaeusTestified [TT] at 4:38!--

 

TT: You know for a fact that doesn’t work on me, dude. Come on, you’re embarrassing yourself.

 

\--timaeusTestified [TT] blocked timaeusTestified [TT]!--

 

TT: Dirk.

 

\--timaeusTestified [TT] blocked timaeusTestified [TT]!--

 

TT: Dirk, come on, this is beyond pointless.

 

\--timaeusTestified [TT] blocked timaeusTestified [TT]!--

 

TT: Bordering on childish, even.

 

\--timaeusTestified [TT] blocked timaeusTestified [TT]!--

 

TT: Then again, I suppose I would be the same way, if I was tossed into your shitty situation.

 

\--timaeusTestified [TT] blocked timaeusTestified [TT]!--

 

TT: Do we even count as the same person anymore, though?

 

\--timaeusTestified [TT] blocked timaeusTestified [TT]!--

 

TT: … Suppression isn’t a very healthy practice, you know? TT: You’ve always had a habit of bottling things until they explode.

 

\--timaeusTestified [TT] blocked timaeusTestified [TT]!--

 

TT: … Okay, fine. We obviously aren’t getting any sustenance of progress done here.  
TT: I’ll just go ahead and leave you to your own, cool?

 

\--timaeusTestified [TT] blocked timaeusTestified [TT]!--

 

TT: Cool.

 

\--timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 4:46--

 


End file.
